


Over the Airwaves

by take_a_ch0nce_on_me



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Female original character - Freeform, Harry Styles - Freeform, falls in love with their voice first!au, fem!oc listens to his late night show, harry is a radio host, kind of slow burn, major angst, one direction - Freeform, the 'face for radio' joke is made a LOT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/take_a_ch0nce_on_me/pseuds/take_a_ch0nce_on_me
Summary: “If you’re listening, you’re probably up late.” Delia settles herself back into bed, her quilt pulled up to her shoulders. “Some of you might be worried for whatever comes tomorrow. Some of you just don’t want today to end. Or maybe, you’re like me.” Delia briefly wonders what he means. Her quilt is warm, her room cool. Just the way she likes it. “Maybe you like the way the witching hours feel.” Her eyes slide shut. The gray of her darkened room gives way to black. “Whatever the reason, I hope you enjoyed our time together.” She had, Delia thinks vaguely. His voice is nice. “Good night, listeners. Sweet dreams.”And finally, Delia falls asleep.An AU in which Harry is a late-night radio host and Delia has insomnia.





	1. Chapter 0: The Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new fic! This is the first I've posted on AO3, but you can see my other work at my tumblr @take-a-ch0nce-on-me. I've been working on this for a while, and I'd love to know what you think! Don't be shy, talk to me in the comments!
> 
> (p.s. I couldn't figure out how to indent this, I know it's not 'proper' formatting, sue me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the short teaser I wrote first, but there's a full length chapter next!

Delia can’t sleep.

This isn’t anything new for her, she’d been diagnosed with insomnia two years ago and sleepless long before that.  
But it’s a new town, and the night feels different, 500 miles from her old home. She’d been unpacking all day, lifting boxes and popping bubble wrap. She should be tired.

But Delia can’t sleep.

With a sigh, she heaves herself to the side of her new bed. Well, it isn't new, she'd had it for three years. But without the same sheets, without the same walls around her, it isn’t really the same bed.

Delia swings her feet off the side of the new bed and scrubs her eyes with a tired hand. She blearily surveys the room. It’s only half assembled, her picture frames lying on the floor in stacks, her favorite swirly chair in the corner. It feels foreign. Wrong.

Delia makes to get up, but her foot collides with something rectangular and plastic, sending it skidding across the room. She hears it lightly bump into the wall. With heavy steps, she crosses the room to examine the object. It’s an old radio her dad had given to her years before, a halfhearted gift she had thanked him for and promptly shoved into the back of her closet.

It was the old-fashioned radio, the kind with a needle and only two dials. She finds a cord bundled up in a small compartment at the back of the radio. Delia plugs it in near her bed, leaving it on the floor next to the box that holds her unassembled nightstand. The needle automatically jumps to life, finding some station playing an old jazz tune. Her hand reaches for a dial, only to accidentally twist the wrong one. Saxophone blares through her room.

Shuddering, Delia twists the knob back, just as the song ends. There’s a beat of static before a low, smooth voice begins to speak.

“That was Somber, by Jeremy Cole. Requested by Mara, for all those lonely souls out there listening too late into the night. Thank you, Mara, for calling in.” Delia’s hand stops on the station dial. The radio host’s voice is slow, unhurried. “To those just joining us, this is The Wee Small Hours. We’re glad to have you.” It was almost like a gentle river, the way the host spoke. It just spills out of his mouth, like drops of honey that melted into a golden stream, spilling languidly into her ears.

“If you’re listening, you’re probably up late.” Delia settles herself back into bed, her quilt pulled up to her shoulders. “Some of you might be worried for whatever comes tomorrow. Some of you just don’t want today to end. Or maybe, you’re like me.” Delia briefly wonders what he means. Her quilt is warm, her room cool. Just the way she likes it. “Maybe you like the way the witching hours feel.” Her eyes slide shut. The gray of her darkened room gives way to black. “Whatever the reason, I hope you enjoyed our time together.” She had, Delia thinks vaguely. His voice is nice. “Good night, listeners. Sweet dreams.”

And finally, Delia falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first full-length chapter! Please feel free to drop me a comment, or swing by my tumblr @take-a-ch0nce-on-me for more of my writing!

The morning is hard. Delia manages to find her coffee pot and a mug in the boxes, only to realize she doesn’t have any coffee grounds or sugar. She walks to the tiny coffee shop on the corner instead. As she waits in line, she contemplates how her life managed to change so much in a matter of weeks. A bolt of loneliness jolts through her.

“Order?” Delia looks up to face the barista. Takes a deep breath. Exhales. _Right_ , she thinks. _I’ve got this_.

The first day of work isn’t any easier. Delia can feel it the moment she pushes through the door and nearly smacks a curly haired girl in the face. She barely has a chance to mumble an apology before the girl is gone, with just a breeze of strawberry shampoo lingering.

“We’re glad to have you, Delia. We here at Elter’s Electrics and Appliances Call Center are a big, happy bunch!” Delia’s manager has more energy than Delia’s had in the past week. She manages a tight smile.

“I’m excited to be here.” She tries to make it sound true. It only works a little.

Her managers smile dims a little. “Your job is to simply sit here,” he gestures to a gray cubicle, “And answer the phone. You’ll be directing people for your first couple days, until you get the hang of it. Then you’ll be trained in assisting specialized departments.” _So many people and jobs_ , she thinks absently, as she sits down, _doing so little_.

“You’ll press line one for Large Appliances, like fridges and washing machines, two for Small Appliances, like microwaves and toasters. Three is General Electric, and four is for anything else.” Her manager, whose name she can’t remember even though he introduced himself three minutes ago, is still smiling. His teeth gleam in the yellow light. “Got it?”

Delia nods, only half sure. “I’ve got it.”

His smile gets even wider. Delia tries not to sigh. “Fantastic! Alia here will help you if you have any questions!” He points to the next cubicle over. She recognizes the mass of curls visible over the cubicle wall and a faint scent of strawberry.

Delia’s lips twitch. “Great.”

Finally, he leaves, shoes squeaking obnoxiously. Delia takes a moment to look around, taking in her surroundings. It immediately becomes apparent that her manager’s teeth were the only thing that were bright about her new workplace. Dim yellow lights light the bland offices, a seemingly never ending sea of cubicles. And in each one, a small figure in equally boring clothes is hunched over a desk, with chunky plastic landlines occasionally lighting up around the room. It’s mundane, uniform. Nothing stands out, nothing brighter than an occasional white button-up.

Delia looks down at her muted gray jeans and black blouse that’d been washed a few too many times. She fit right in.

Delia’s lunch break comes after what feels like forever and two seconds at the same time. _Time seems to pass weird here,_ she notices, while she slowly stirs her cooling latte. Seconds can stretch into hours, only for hours to pass with a flip of paperwork or blip of a landline. She sighs, pushing away her cold coffee and stale croissant. Ignoring the sticky coffee table beneath her elbows, Delia rests her chin on her propped up hands, just for a moment.  
It’s not until her head slips and knocks into the window that she realizes she’s fallen asleep. She ends up being twenty minutes late back to work.

The rest of the work day is so uneventful that Delia can’t even recall what happened by the time she gets home. Whatever it was, it was enough to exhaust her, so she just grabs a yogurt cup from the fridge for dinner and walks the three-and-a-half steps to her bedroom. Her chair is covered in boxes, so she settles down into a pile of clothes, shifting until the underwire of a bra stops jabbing itself into her spine. She sighs, accidentally stirring up an unbidden memory.

Her mom’s hand on her cheek. Warm nutmeg chai.

_Be careful, Dee. If you sigh too much you’ll become bitter, and then no amount of honey can sweeten your tea._

Delia feels like she has plenty to be bitter about now, coupled with the fact that she doesn’t even have a kettle to make tea.

Still, the thought of her mom makes her sigh again.

Delia goes to bed early that night. As she fusses with her duvet and pillows, she thinks she can almost hear faint saxophone somewhere in the night. Out of sheer curiosity (or at least, that what she tells herself), Delia switches on the radio and lays it on an unopened moving box, the one that holds her lamp and maybe some candles too. The needle is at the same station as last night, and the same voice drifts from the speaker.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Carl. It sounds like you’ve had a rough time.” Low and melodious, the announcer’s voice feels like he's just across the room with Delia. She lays back in bed, savoring his cadence.

“It’s alright, Harry. Tough times make tougher people.” A new voice, an older one, echoes into her room. Before she can relish in the name, the _perfect_ name for this mysterious voice, the radio announcer chuckles, and Delia swears her heart _stops_.

“Well, that’s quite the attitude, Carl. Really quite admirable, actually. This one’s for you, tough guy.” A new song starts, and Delia finds herself swept up in the curling melodies of the violin piece. It pulls her deeper and deeper down into sleep, but Harry’s chuckle continues to echo in her mind as she sinks into oblivion.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretend it hasn't been nine months since I updated okay
> 
> I literally wrote this in 2 hours with absolutely no proofreading, just for you I hope you're happy.  
> I'm joking I'm actually really excited please enjoy!

“Good evening, listeners, and welcome to The Wee Small Hours. I’m your host, Harry Styles.” Delia shifts onto her side, tilting her head to better hear the radio. “I had a strange day today. Has you ever gone to the grocery store past midnight?” His question makes Delia pause, amused. “It’s a strange experience. I went this morning after the show finished, just to pick up some milk and biscuits. That’s cookies, to my American listeners.” His voice quirks, and Delia smiles. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth. But in the baked good aisle, I saw a former colleague. So naturally, I duck into another aisle, and end up waiting near the baby powder for twenty minutes!” Harry chuckles to himself, a low rumble.

“Now, listeners, it’s not as if we parted on bad terms. We’d gone to the pub a couple times, in a group, but if he’d have seen me, then we would have had to do the whole ‘catching up’ thing—” Delia can hear the finger quotes Harry undoubtably used—“And if that isn’t the premise of a horror movie, then I don't know what it.” It strikes Delia as a little odd, how well she feels she knows Harry, even though she’d only been listening to his show for two weeks. Something about his voice was so inviting, like they’d been friends for years.

“We have a caller on the line! Welcome to The Wee Small Hours, listener.” An elderly voice crackled over the static.

“Hi, Harry. How are you doing, dear?” The caller immediately reminds Delia of a grandma, the kind in movies that bake cookies and pinches cheeks.

“Hi, Dolores, I’m well, thank you.” Harry’s fondness for the old woman is evident in his voice, and it’s clear she’s a regular caller.

“Well I want to know what you’re doing up so late, Harry. And at a grocery store? A young man like you should be out, having fun!” His slow chuckle made Delia blush in the darkness of her room.

“Can’t a man have fun at the grocery store?” Harry teases back, and Delia almost wants to roll her eyes at his cheeky flirting. Their call lasts a couple more minutes, until Harry announces the last song of his show. With a start, Delia rolls over in her bed to check the time. Had she really listened to the whole show? A soft voice begins singing a slow, sultry song, and she lays back, still blushing slightly.

Delia didn’t stop blushing until she fell asleep, hours later.

~~

In the mornings, Delia takes the train to work.

The trains are usually late, and the seats are always sticky, but she finds she doesn’t mind that much. This morning, she brings a book with her, something she read for a class in high school. She’s already on the second chapter when a pop of bright yellow catches her eye.

 _Join the new generation of go-getters_! The ad is plastered on the train wall across from her, in between subway maps and some graffiti. _Apply to Galston University today._ The picture of cheery students that accompanies the ad makes her stomach turn.

Delia distracts herself on her phone instead, running down the cell battery until her stop.

The thing is, Delia had tried the whole ‘college’ thing. She’d given it a shot, but t didn’t work out. It wasn’t a good fit, plain and simple. She wasn’t meant for a college life, or the things that came with it.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

(The truth, a mix of tuition bills and late night anxiety, was much scarier than she’d like to admit.)

She’d fallen into a routine at work: Arrive at 9, answer calls until 11:30, then take a ten minute break with Alia in the kitchen. Delia’d thought that she’d been rude, nearly knocking her over when they’d first met, but it’d turned out that she was just always in a rush. Alia is the kind of person to be doing something, at all times: answering a phone while signing paperwork while researching the best ramen in town. Her fast-paced energy compliments Delia’s go-with-the-flow attitude, which usually results in her being dragged along to whatever new venture Alia’s exploring.  
Her lunches where usually spent with Alia, at the nearby coffeeshop where Alia’d gossip and Delia would listen, until Alia’d have to eat her yogurt on their walk back because she’d been talking too much to eat. Every Friday, Delia’d be invited to ‘grab a drink with us, just a quick one,’ and every Friday she’d make up some excuse so she could eat whatever was in her fridge and watch tv.

It isn't that she dislikes her coworkers; she doesn’t relate to them. They all know what they want, and have a plan to get it, and have direction. They’re adults, properly living their lives. And Delia can’t relate to that. So she’d always awkwardly bow out. On some level, she knows she’s nervous they’d realize she’s not like them. That she’s spinning her wheels, trying to convince herself that while it isn’t the life she wanted, it’s still a good life. One she wouldn’t mind living.

Alia had noticed, too. She’d even told Delia, one day during their lunch hour, in that rapid-fire point-blank way she speaks.

“You never come out with us.” It wasn’t a question. “You never really talk about yourself, either.” Alia tilted her head, scrutinizing Delia up and down, so intensely that Delia uncomfortably wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, as if that would block Alia’s gaze. “You’re scared. You’re…pretending.” Delia’s blood had run cold. “You should stop it, you know. It’s going to exhaust you.” And with a matter of fact nod, Alia returned to speculating about a coworker’s habit of stealing office supplies.

The fact that Alia had picked her apart, so quickly, with nearly no personal information to go on, stays with Delia for weeks afterwards. Is she really so transparent?

Would it really be so terrible if she is?

That night, Delia turns on the radio, but it’s too early, and Harry hasn’t started his show yet. She scrolls aimlessly on her phone to pass the time, trying to stop the words from bouncing around her head. _You’re scared…You’re pretending._ Alia was right. She is tired of it. But she isn’t sure she could stop, now that she’s been pretending for so long.

“Good evening, listeners. It’s The Wee Small Hours, and I’m your host, Harry Styles. It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it?” Harry’s voice fills her room, fills her head, pushing Alia’s words away. Burrowing deeper into her sheets, Delia shuts her eyes, focusing on Harry’s voice as it carries her off into sleep.


End file.
